us was a foundling.

Once there was a woman by the name of Nancy Hanks; she was thin-breasted,
gaunt, yellow and sad. At last, living in poverty, overworked, she was
stricken by death. She called her son--homely as herself--and pointing to
the lad's sister said, "Be good to her, Abe," and died--died, having no
expectation for her boy beyond the hope that he might prosper in worldly
affairs so as to care for himself and his sister. The boy became a man
who wielded wisely a power mightier than that ever given to any other
American. Seven college-bred men composed his cabinet; and Proctor Knott
once said that "if a teeter were evenly balanced, and the members of the
cabinet were all placed on one end, and the President on the other, he
would send the seven wise men flying into space."

On the other hand, Marcus Aurelius wrote his "Meditations" for a son who
did not read them, and whose name is a symbol of profligacy; Charles
Kingsley penned "Greek Heroes" for offspring who have never shown their
father's heroism; and Charles Dickens wrote "A Child's History of
England" for his children--none of whom has proven his proficiency in
historiology.

Charles Dickens himself received his education at the University of Hard
Knocks. Very early in life he was cast upon the rocks and suckled by the
she-wolf. Yet he became the most popular author the world has ever known,
and up to the present time no writer of books has approached him in point
of number of readers and of financial returns. These are facts--facts so
hard and true that they would be the delight of Mr. Gradgrind.

At twelve years of age, Charles Dickens was pasting labels on
blacking-boxes; his father was in prison. At sixteen, he was spending odd
hours in the reading-room of the British Museum. At nineteen, he was
Parliamentary reporter; at twenty-one, a writer of sketches; at
twenty-three, he was getting a salary of thirty-five dollars a week, and
the next year his pay was doubled. When twenty-five, he wrote a play that
ran for seventy nights at Drury Lane Theater. About the same time he
received seven hundred dollars for a series of sketches written in two
weeks. At twenty-six, publishers were at his feet.

When Dickens was at the flood-tide of prosperity, Thackeray, one year his
senior, waited on his doorstep with pictures to illustrate "Pickwick."

He worked steadily, and made from eight to twenty-five thousand dollars a
year. His fame increased, and the "New Y